


The Next Best Thing

by Sintari (OriginalSintari)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Denial, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Pining, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalSintari/pseuds/Sintari
Summary: Sometimes you can say things on the phone that you would never say in person. Sam and Dean find that out again and again. (Shameless smut.)





	The Next Best Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely [Ratflavored](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatFlavored/pseuds/RatFlavored) and [Bryndenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndenn/pseuds/bryndenn) for the thoughtful and thorough betas! All remaining mistakes are my own. And thank you to [Myrafur's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrafur/pseuds/myrafur) dirty mind for the suggestion that I hope she thinks I put to good use. 
> 
> ETA: And thanks again to [Ratflavored](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatFlavored/pseuds/RatFlavored) for the absolutely gorgeous header. I am one lucky smut peddler.

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183801240@N04/48617065838/in/dateposted-public/)  
  


Sam’s dead to the world when their shared dorm phone rings. Some instinct about only bad news coming at night has him fumbling for the receiver before he’s really awake.

He knows his mouth is hanging open like a hooked fish when he hears the “Sammy,” on the other end of the line. Dean.

“Oh. It’s you,” his sleepy brain thinks. But his mouth says, “How’d you get my number?”

“C’mon, man.”

“Fair enough,” Sam realizes his tone might sound less than happy to hear from his brother, even while he’s swinging his legs off his dorm’s twin bed and wiping the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles.

“So, what are you doing?” Dean says, and now that Sam’s more awake he can make out the slur in his brother’s voice.

“Are you drunk?”

“A relative term.”

“You’ve got to be drunk to call me?”

But Sam is truly surprised by what his brother says next.

“Liquid courage, I guess.”

For some reason, that relaxes Sam. He chuckles.

“I’m that scary?”

His brother answers his chuckle with one of his own. “You never saw yourself fighting with Dad, man. Like two rams butting heads.”

There’s a silence then.

“Where are you?” Sam breaks it, suddenly very much not wanting his brother to hang up. Suddenly knowing that this moment exists in the center of a bubble, and any wrong word will pop it. He’s missed his brother.

“Ah shit, let’s see what the matchbook says,” Dean is saying. Sam hears fumbling. “Loveland, Colorado.”

“That sounds far,” Sam says.

There’s another silence, and Sam thinks Dean’s fallen asleep or something. He’s relieved when his brother finally answers with a husky, “Yeah. It feels far.”

“What are you guys- What are you doing there?”

“Case,” Dean says. His words are clipped now. Sam supposes his brother really took him seriously when Sam told him that this isn’t his life anymore. “I know you won’t ask about him. Like I said, rams, man. But Dad’s fine. Same as ever.”

It’s Sam’s turn to pause. He finally comes out with, “Okay.” And then, for some reason, “He there?”

“Nah,” his brother says. “That wouldn’t be a wise idea, I don’t think, calling you with him here.”

“Since when have you ever been wise?”

Dean snorts, but that only leads to another pause before he adds, “School good?”

School is the last thing Sam wants to talk about with Dean right now. “Yes. Getting A’s so far.”

“My genius baby brother,” Dean says, and Sam hears the slurring again. He can tell by the rustling on the other end of the line and the way Dean sighs that his brother is laying down now.

“Are you alone?” his brother asks suddenly.

Sam looks over at his roommate’s empty bed. “Yes.”

“Me, too.”

“I know. You already said.”

“Oh yeah.”

Sam hears a catch in his brother’s voice. He’s breathing faster. Sam wonders if Dean’s taken off his shoes or is digging his boot heels into the comforter like he does sometimes when he’s drank too much. He wonders if the Taurus is already under the pillow.

“You got your boots on the bed?”

Dean laughs. “Nah, housekeeping. It’s warm here for Spring. Just boxers for me.”

Sam can picture it. Dean stretched out on top of the covers in a pair of black boxer briefs with fraying hems. He’s never dared to look too long, when Dean walked around in just his underwear - or less. But that never stopped Sam from thinking of it, alone in the dark.

He thought he’d put this behind him when he got on that Greyhound bus, but here’s Dean in his ear and nobody can see him and you can’t help the way you think. Right?

“You?” Dean suddenly asks.

“Yeah, boxers for me, too,” feeling strange having a “what are you wearing?” conversation with his older brother, Sam adds, “It’s usually hot here.”

Sam lays back down, too, and his hand finds his stiffening cock in his boxers and he gives it a press, flush against his abs, and then a stroke. His cock twitches when his brother’s voice breaks the silence again.

“You laying down?” Dean asks. His voice is the purr he uses with his conquests now, leonine and deep. What are they doing?

“Um. Yeah. You?”

“Uh huh.” Then, “Hey, Sammy?” Dean’s breath is coming in little hitches now. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d swear his brother’s hand was on his own cock, too.

“Yeah?”

“Keep talking to me.”

Those words, in that tone, tear a groan from Sam. His feels his whole body color. His brother heard that. How could he not?

But that’s when Sam realizes that his brother has answered him with a groan of his own. Sam’s cock is distressingly hard now, pre-come streaming down his stomach. Is Dean really…?

“Talk, Sammy.”

“I don’t- Dean.” This time, as soon as Sam says his brother’s name, there’s no mistaking the sound he hears on the other end of the phone line. Dean’s gasping, and the sound sends Sam over the edge, too. He doesn’t even have time to lower his boxers, messing the fabric as he spurts again and again. But the come drying on his stomach is the least messy thing about this. Oh god what did they just do?

“I better go,” Sam says quickly. “Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Sammy.”

They don’t speak again for two years.

()()()()()

Dean is respectful after Jess’s death. That is, until the day a waitress trails one finger down Sam’s bicep after she plops their pitcher down on the high top.

“Time to get back in the saddle, Sammy?” Dean teases, as they both watch her walk away. But Sam notes how his brother studies him, waiting for his reply.

Sam just shrugs. “That’s more your scene than mine.”

Dean drops it. At least that night.

They’ve never talked about the drunken phone call during Sam’s freshman year at Stanford. Even though it was his brother who clearly started it, when it crosses his mind, Sam can still feel the mess in his boxers and the flush all over his whole body as he thinks about what he did. His brother had been drunk. Sam, though, had known exactly what he was doing, even if–he tells himself–it was only because he was swept up in the moment.

He doubts his brother even remembers it. If Dean sometimes stares at him too long when he’s shucking his shirts off or his brother’s eyes sometimes drop well below eye-level, well, Sam’s probably imagining it.

And if Sam sometimes, there with his brother just outside a locked hollow core motel room door, can’t even wait until the shower gets hot before he wraps his hand around his cock and conjures up that phone call, Dean’s noises, well… There’s no use being introspective on that point.

Until one night where Sam opts to stay in and search for new cases with a Gilligan’s Island marathon on in the background, while Dean heads out for his usual celebration of a hunt well done.

Sam’s cell vibrates a few minutes after last call. He looks up from the castaways’ latest coconut-based escape plan to see his brother’s number on the screen.

“Sammy,” his brother slurs.

“Are you drunk?” Sam asks. And it’s so reminiscent of that other conversation, the one Sam has repeated again and again in his head, that he feels his cock involuntarily swelling against the fly of his jeans.

“A relative term,” his brother says, and Sam groans involuntarily.

Sam hears his brother swallow.

“Are you driving?” Sam rushes to fill the space.

“Nah,” his brother says. “I’ll sober up a little in my Baby first.”

“Are you in the front seat or back?” Sam asks. He realizes how this sounds. It’s “what are you wearing?” all over again. “I just- Maybe sleep in the back. Last thing you need is the FBI catching up with you because of a loitering citation.”

“All right, Dad. Geez,” Dean sighs, and Sam hears Baby’s driver’s side door creak open, then close, and then the back door do the same.

“I’m in the back now. You happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, after a pause.

Sam realizes he’s lazily palming the shape of his cock through his jeans and stops, balls that hand into a fist.

“Gilligan’s Island reruns,” he admits.

“Which one?”

“The one where they formulate a plan to get off the island,” Sam jokes.

Dean chuckles. “That’s a good one.”

Another silence.

“Do you have your boots on the bed?” Dean asks.

He remembers. Oh shit. His brother remembers. Sam’s sitting straight up now, clutching the phone to his ear.

Don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, Sam’s thinking. But is it his “normal” relationship with his brother that he means? Or a second chance to listen to his brother’s ragged breaths in his ear as he comes? Sam realizes he’s stroking his cock again.

“No,” Sam says. He’s left too long a pause between Dean’s question and his answer, and he has to clear his throat and try again. “No. No boots on the bed.”

“Good, Sammy,” Dean breathes. “That’s real good.” Sam hears the hitching breaths again. Imagines Dean in the backseat of the Impala, fly unzipped, thumb and forefinger ringing his cockhead. Talking to Sam.

Sam is flabbergasted when the next words out of his own mouth are a low, “You like that?”

It’s undeniable. The groan that question tears from his brother’s throat can and could only ever be one thing. Dean is jerking himself off while he’s talking to Sam. Holy shit.

“Keep talking, Sammy,” his brother’s voice is almost a growl.

“You talk.” Sam has surprised himself again. He’s never done anything like this before. Well, except with Dean.

There’s another silence, and he’s afraid he’s gone too far. But then his brother says, still with the burr of alcohol in his voice, “Fuck it. Okay. Where’s your right hand right now?”

Said right hand is currently squeezing Sam’s cock in a death grip because, holy shit, he doesn’t want to come this fast. Not when they’re doing this.

“I don’t know if you want me to answer that,” Sam breathes, when the sheer want clogging his throat subsides enough for him to speak again.

“I think I can imagine,” his brother says. His breaths are short hitching puffs again, in that pattern that Sam remembers, the one that he’s fantasized about so many times.

“Wait,” he says suddenly. Dean inhales, but the hitching breaths stop. Sam feels their loss like an ache. “Wait for me.”

“Yeah, okay, Sammy.” They wait until both of their breathing evens out. Sam waits until he isn’t afraid that a mere touch will set him off before he fumbles himself out of his jeans. The zipper sounds loud in the silence. He wonders if Dean heard.

As if in answer, Dean asks, “Now?”

“Yeah, Dean.”

The only sounds over the phone now are slight moans as they, at the same time, half a Wyoming town apart, touch themselves in tandem. Sam imagines his brother, disheveled and grinning like the Cheshire Cat, his shirt pulled up over his abs and his cock obscene and swollen in the Impala’s backseat. Oh god he’s going to…

“Now,” Dean says. This time it isn’t a question.

Holy shit.

Afterward, Sam says, “Wait until you sober up, okay?” It’s for Dean’s safety, but also to reassure himself that his brother will come back. That he won’t wake up with an aching head in the cold light of morning, remember what they’ve done, and run far, far away from a pervert like Sam.

“Yeah, Sammy. Night.”

Sam’s found a case by the time Dean returns the next morning. They have plenty of time to talk about it on the cross-country drive, but they don’t.

()()()()()

“Call me when you get there,” Sam yells after his brother, and swears he sees a flicker of something cross Dean’s eyes before his brother salutes and lets the door slam behind him.

Normally Sam would be the one to go to Bobby’s and do research, but his brother volunteered. Dean’s been twitchy and irritable, the way he gets when they stay in one town, or even one state, for too long.

It’s after midnight when Sam’s phone finally rings.

“Heya, Sammy. I’m here. Bobby’s not.”

“Oh man. Could you get in?”

“Little brother. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“You’re good and all,” Sam laughs, “But I don’t know if you’re a match for Bobby’s traps.”

At that, his brother yelps an “Ow!”

“Are you okay?”

“Ow, ow, ow,” his brother continues, cluing Sam in that his brother isn’t dead yet. “Okay, so you were right about the booby traps. You’re lucky my reflexes are so healthy. That could have really hurt.”

“You didn’t bother to make sure you could get in before you called me?” Sam is sprawled on the motel room’s king bed. That, and the “liberated” car he abandoned at a truck stop up by I-40 are his only concessions to being alone instead of by his brother’s side.

“Nah, because I know how you worry, Samantha.”

Sam laughs again. “What are you going to do now? Get into Bobby’s liquor cabinet? Raid his skin mags?”

“Hey, now there’s an idea. Old man probably has some vintage stuff. You know, real beaver.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother.

“Go to town.”

“Oh, I will.”

A pause.

Sam says, “Well, I should…” at the same time Dean says, “Stay on the phone with me. Let’s see what I can find.”

“Oh my god. Tell me you aren’t going poking around under Bobby’s mattress. For all we know he’s got razor blades under there. Besides, you’re supposed to be looking for anything about the Ozark Howler.”

“It’s after midnight, Sammy. I’d be useless. Aha. Bingo. What’d I tell you? 1981.”

Sam marvels at his brother’s ability to detect porn at any given location.

“Dude, remember that Cindi chick that Dad brought home a couple of times when we were down in Taos? Cindi-with-an-i?” Sam can imagine the grin on Dean’s face when he mutters to himself, “The good kind of Cindi.”

Oh yes. Sam remembers her. He’d been twelve and Dean had been sixteen and they’d both been in the throes of puberty. Cindi, perhaps because John never bothered to give her the impression that there would never be a next Mrs. Winchester, had made them Mickey Mouse pancakes in a tennis skirt and halter top, with Dean mouthing “Mother of God” to Sam behind her back as she hummed over the stove.

“I think this is her,” Dean says excitedly.

“No way. She couldn’t have been eighteen in 1981.”

“Shut up with your math. I never forget a rack.” A pause. “I hear you rolling your eyes.”

Sam laughed, caught. He heard his brother leafing through the pages.

“I’ll bite,” he finally said. “What’s she doing?”

“That a boy. It’s a Miami kind of vibe. Looking at us over her sunglasses, blue bikini bottom pulled down halfway showing the crack of her – gotta say – very round ass. Sammy, I think this is her. Boy, the things I would have done to Cindi-with-an-i.”

Sam shouldn’t. “Like what?”

His brother hums a considering sound. His voice has gone huskier when he speaks again. “Remember she used to make us breakfast? I would have flipped that little tennis skirt up, slid her panties down and ate that ass while she flipped our bacon.”

At that, Sam is unconscionably, unbearably hard. He allows Dean to hear him breathing, ragged, before he finds his voice.

“Oh yeah. You like to eat ass?”

“Oh yeah. Pussy, too. For the sounds they make.”

Oh fuck. Sam hadn’t meant for them to do this again. Really. He stands up, begins to pace. Has yet to touch himself, though his dick didn’t seem to get the memo. But he can’t help but ask, “What would she do to you?”

Another considering hum. “Well, since her pussy’s all wet, hate to waste it. You know?”

“Uh huh.”

“Probably bend her over that rickety little table. Remember that? We stuck two bathroom tiles under the leg so your cereal wouldn’t slide off. Probably bend her over that and fuck her ‘til she screams my name.”

“Fuck.” This is a slip. Sam didn’t mean to say it. He’s standing in the alcove in front of the motel room sink with his hands down his pants listening to his brother narrate all the filthy things he wants to do to someone else and he thinks if his cock gets any harder he’s going to black out.

This time, it’s Sam who hears the sound of Dean’s zipper.

“What else?” Sam asks.

“I’d stick a finger in her ass, too,” his brother continues. “You think she’d like that? Getting filled up both ways?”

“Oh yeah.” Somewhere between pacing and listening to this tale, Sam’s eased himself out of his fly again and now he’s smoothing two fingers over his length so he doesn’t go off too fast.

“I think so, too.” There are those hitching breaths again. “She could suck you off, you know,” his brother continues.

Sam leans against the wall, no longer trusting his knees. His brother–his brother-is talking about sucking him off.

He eventually finds enough presence of mind to ask, “While you fuck her?”

“And the finger in her ass, don’t forget.”

“Two fingers,” Sam supplies.

“Oh fuck yeah. Two fingers. She’d fucking squeal. Think she’d blow you good, Sammy? Her lips wrapped around your cock?”

That does it. He doesn’t mean to, but Sam can’t help it. It’s like he’s twelve again, watching Cindi-with-an-i bend over in that tiny skirt and having to run off to the bathroom before he embarrassed himself. And, just like he’s twelve again, come goes everywhere. The wall, the floor. God.

“You-?” Dean asks. Tentative.

“Yeah. You haven’t?”

“Not yet.”

Sam knows what to do by now. It’s not like he hasn’t replayed their two previous filthy phone conversations over in his mind over and over again. For years now.

“Don’t come in her yet,” Sam says. “She wants to suck you off after me.” Inspired, he adds, “Maybe I’ll fuck her. Get your sloppy seconds.”

Dean doesn’t bother to hide his groan. “Sammy. Yes. God.”

“She’ll sit you down in one of those uncomfortable chairs. Take your cock in her mouth, still all slick with her pussy.”

“Oh Sammy, you’re good at this. Keep talking.”

“She’ll lick up the shaft, until she gets to your head. Licking precome off your slit like the first lick of a lollipop…”

Dean doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s coming. His growl disintegrates into a sigh when he’s finished. Sam wonders where in Bobby’s house he is. Thinks of the flannel his brother was wearing when he walked out the door six hours earlier, and how he may even now be using it to clean up as he softens. He wants- Fuck.

“Glad you made it up there safe,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I’m all good. Night, Sammy.”

It’s not until he sleeps on it that Sam realizes his brother hadn’t been drunk at all.

()()()()()

Sam is driving along what has to be the country’s loneliest highway outside Great Basin National Park when he spots in the headlights of his loaner car that rarest of all historical artifacts – a payphone booth.

The phone booth is next to an abandoned gas station with all the pumps ripped out so he has very little faith that it will work, but it has also been three hours since his phone died, and his brother is waiting on him for the vital info from that park ranger that will finally solve their case.

He’s surprised when he picks up the receiver and hears a dial tone. The Great Basin Watershed is perpetually windy, so he shuts the phone booth’s door, barricading himself in the small space with barely two inches of clearance for his head.

He has to call Dean’s Other Other Phone twice before his brother picks up with a gruff, “Yeah?”

“It’s me.”

“Where the hell you been? You missed all the fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever heard of the Bear Lake Monster? A – it’s not a myth. B – it’s not invincible.”

“Guess you figured it out without me.”

“It’s not a competition, little brother. We’ve always known who’s the better hunter.” Sam imagines Dean making a finger gun then blowing imaginary smoke from his fingertip to congratulate himself on his kill.

“Yeah, yeah.” But Sam’s grinning to himself at his brother’s lighthearted good mood. He hears the unmistakable sound of Dean popping the top off a beer with his ring, in that trick that shouldn’t be sexy but always is. Sam feels his mouth go dry when he listens to his brother swig.

“Where are you? Where’s your phone?”

“Phone booth in Bumfuck, Nevada. Three or four hours out. Forgot my charger.”

“Oh ho. He forgot his charger. You’re really not giving me a run for my money for Best Hunter, huh?”

“Very funny, Dean.” Sam should hang up, but his brother is in such a good mood that he doesn’t want the conversation to end. He pauses, twirling the phone cord around his finger in a way he hasn’t had the chance to do since he was very small. Not a single set of headlights have passed since he stopped, and he suddenly feels very exposed out here, except for his brother’s bright good humor on the other end of the line.

He hears Dean swallow another sip of beer. “Phone booth, huh?” his brother asks. “Didn’t think they still had those.”

“Out in the middle of nowhere. The land that the phone company forgot.”

“You pulling a Superman in there?”

Sam laughs. “Go in as geeky Sam Winchester and come out as-?”

“Hey,” his brother interrupts, affecting a growl. “Nobody talks about my brother like that but me.”

Sam laughs again. “I should probably head back toward you.”

“…Yeah. I’ll save you a beer. Fat lot of good you did on this case, though.”

“Where’d you end up staying anyway?” Sam remembers to ask.

“The Aardvark Motel, room 112. Amazing the things they used to pull just to go first in the phonebook. You’ll see it from the highway south of Twin Falls. ”

Sam laughs again. He really doesn’t want to hang up this version of Dean, silly and – Sam can hear it in his voice – smiling, alone there in the room, probably laying on the bed with a beer propped on his belly. The image, so familiar and domestic, shouldn’t have him hard in his jeans in a phone booth in northern Nevada, but it does. He’s sick, that’s what Sam is. But Dean doesn’t seem to want to hang up either.

“A lot of people around this phone booth?” his brother asks.

Sam’s mouth goes dry. “Haven’t seen a single car, actually.”

“That’s interesting,” his brother says, and it’s his deeper voice this time. The one Sam conjures up when he closes his eyes alone and in the dark of night.

“Oh yeah?”

“You don’t think it’s interesting? That you’re all by yourself with nobody anywhere around?” his brother’s voice is soft. “I mean, you could do anything.”

Sam swallows. “Like what?”

“Take your cock out,” his brother breathes.

Sam’s unsure how he’s still standing, considering that he’s turned to water from his crotch to the tips of his toes. It’s his turn to breathe, “Fuck, Dean.”

“That’s the idea.”

Sam’s whole body tingles like pins and needles. Did his brother really just say that? His brother just told him what to do with his cock? And not under some pretense about some chick they barely remembered. Dean, with whom Sam had never spoken a word about these phone conversations, knew precisely, exactly what he’d just said.

“Okay,” Sam finally finds the presence of mind to reply. Then, “You do it, too,” he thinks to add.

“Way ahead of you,” Dean husks. And oh holy hell.

Though he knows he’s relatively hidden in the phone booth in the middle of nowhere, Sam still looks all around.

“Did you do it?” Dean asks.

“I could get arrested,” Sam says.

“Nobody will see. C’mon, Sammy.” And it’s the same insistent “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean used to use when Sam resisted leaving a favorite school or had it out one too many times with Dad. Who is Sam to refuse his brother?

Still he turns away from the road before he unzips and lifts his cock out of his boxers. It’s colder here than the usual places he’s used to being, well, exposed. What the hell is he thinking? But Dean’s voice is still in his ear, “Take it out.”

“It’s out.”

“Holy shit,” his brother’s voice is husky. “You’re so bad, Sammy.”

Sam closes his eyes. His brother’s voice in his ear while the northern Nevada wind whips around him, in the middle of nowhere, with this cock in his hand, is so wildly erotic that he’s about to have to put down the phone, get that voice out of his head, or he for sure won’t last.

“Are you stroking it?” Dean continues.

Sam obeys, murmuring “I- I won’t last.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Are you?” Sam asks.

“Oh yeah. For a while now.”

God. Sam rearranges his mental image of Dean now. Places him in a threadbare motel chair with cigarette burns on the upholstery. Beer in one hand, stroking himself with the other.

“Take off your shirt,” Sam finds himself saying.

“Oh yeah?” his brother asks. “You like that?” He hears Dean sit the phone down for a moment, hears the rustle of flannels and t-shirts. “It’s off.”

The mental image in his head complies, too. In his mind, his brother’s nipples are as diamond-hard as Sam’s own. His imagined Dean trails a finger down his chest, his abs, over his treasure trail and dipping below the waistband of his boxers to show Sam his balls. He’s breathtaking.

“Cup your balls,” Sam directs. He hears an intake of breath as his brother complies, but also a grumbled, “I thought I was giving the orders here.”

“I’m the one up for an indecent exposure charge, the least you can do is humor me.” And are they really bickering? While they’re doing this? Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel deeply, deeply uncomfortable. His raw nerves make that decision for him when his brother actually moans.

“What was that? What are you thinking about?” Sam asks.

There’s a long pause. Sam doesn’t hear the usual hitching breaths that tell him Dean’s stroking himself.

“You,” Dean eventually says. It’s so soft that Sam can pretend to mishear it and Dean can pretend he never said it. Except that Sam can’t bite back his own groan at his brother’s words.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “Not Cindi-with-an-i?” His hand isn’t moving anymore. This is too important for that. He genuinely wants to know. Needs to know.

“No,” comes the strangled reply.

“Me neither,” Sam breathes into the phone.

They’re both quiet for a few charged moments.

“It wasn’t her,” Dean finally says, voice like in a confessional. “When I was talking about sucking you off. I wasn’t thinking about her doing it.”

Oh god. Sam anticipates what Dean is going to say next, but his brother hesitates.

“You were thinking about-?” Sam prods, absolutely still, holding his breath.

“I was thinking about me doing it.”

“Oh god,” is all Sam can utter. He’s not even touching his cock when he comes. Later he’ll swear he blacks out for a minute. He looks down. His hand is slick and sloppy, but the glass wall of the phone booth takes the worst of it. His brother’s still on the other end of the line, chanting “yeah, Sammy, come Sammy,” listening to him panting loud and rumbling, like a beast.

“Fuck,” Sam is finally allowed to catch his breath enough to say.

“Did you?” Dean asks, and it’s all teasing. Half the countryside likely knows what Sam just did.

“Oh my god. Shut up,” Sam says, but he’s laughing, too. Whatever they’re doing, it can’t be too bad if they’re laughing about it, right? Right?

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. “I’ve got my boots on the bed.”

“Bad,” Sam says.

“What you going to do about it?” his brother challenges. “You said you’re three or four hours out, right?”

Sam swallows. Smiles.

“I can make it in two and a half.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Rebloggable Tumblr link here](https://crooked-sleep.tumblr.com/post/186492889684/the-next-best-thing-wincest-fic) if you feel like sharing today.


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